


The Shape of Modern Imperialism

by alifeasvivid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, more ukus than usuk, non graphic sexual content, past porteng
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 17:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17308853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: America shows up early for a visit at England’s house, just in time to get jealous of Portgual. England then teaches him a veryhands-onlesson about the nature of power.





	The Shape of Modern Imperialism

**Author's Note:**

> Long live confident, sexy, seductive England.
> 
> *cross-posted on tumblr

“Hey England!” America calls out as he nudges open the front door to the house England has lived in since the reign of Queen Victoria. His backpack is slung over one shoulder and a small carry-on bag trails behind him. He pauses in the foyer and listens for a response, but doesn’t get one. America drops his backpack next to his suitcase and treads carefully toward the living room. 

He hears England’s voice conversing with another that he doesn’t immediately recognize. As he rounds the corner, he sees England curled up comfortably on one end of his couch, his arm draped over the back with a glass of some kind of brown liquor held loosely in his fingers. He’s smiling and laughing and much more at ease than America is used to seeing him.

Portugal sits at the other end of the couch, similarly casual and laid back. His empty glass sits on England’s coffee table.

Jealousy flares up in America’s chest, the flames of it tickle his tongue and slide down his throat. He isn’t sure exactly when he became aware of England and Portugal’s history, but the feeling of being sucker-punched in the gut every time he thinks about it hasn’t faded in the slightest. For some reason it grates on him more than the others he’s aware of, probably because England looks so carefree and light when he talks to Portugal.

America’s own romantic relationship with England is still somewhat new, so seeing the two older Nations like this stings and raises questions. America is there unannounced, so is Portugal often here when he isn’t? Do they do things other than just sit on the couch? Why is England never this relaxed around _him_?

Is Portugal the reason that England still seems like he’s holding America at a distance?

“Ah! América!” Portugal exclaims jovially as he catches sight of him. “You are here. Inglaterra was not expecting you until next week. What a good surprise!”

America knows Portugal is smiling, but all he can focus on is the way tension seizes England’s shoulders up into a stance more familiar to him. “Uh, yeah… I got some time off, so I decided to fly out early.”

England has a strange smile on his face when he turns around. “You should have called, America. I would have got you at the airport.”

America raises an eyebrow, “I wanted to surprise you. I can go if—”

Portugal suddenly stands up from the couch, snatching England’s glass and giving him a pointed look in the process. “No, no. I am just leaving. Inglaterra, you will see me out.” He sets England’s glass on the table next to his own, grabs England’s extended forearm and pulls him up.

“Ah, yes, of course.” England follows Portugal toward the door, but pauses in front of America. “Make yourself at home, love,” he says and kisses America on his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

The two older Nations disappear in the direction of the foyer. America doesn’t dare move, but he tilts his head to try and hear what they are saying. It’s all in perfectly fluent Portuguese and hushed tones and America knows Brazil’s dialects better, so he can’t really make out what they’re saying.

The door finally clicks shut and England returns. He wraps his arms around America’s neck and kisses him deeply, but gently; it’s an exchange of breath more than anything else.

America feels kind of dizzy when England breaks the kiss.

England brushes America’s hair back from his face and adjusts his glasses. “You should sit down and rest, America, it’s a long flight. You must be tired.”

“Um. Yeah,” America mumbles as he allows England to steer him toward the sofa. He plops down at the center of it and looks up at England who smiles affectionately and ruffles his hair.

“Would you like something to drink?”

America wants to say no, but his mouth is suddenly dry, so he says, “Um, water would be good.”

England disappears into the kitchen momentarily and returns with a glass of water. “You really should have called, I don’t mind fetching you.” He hands America the glass and sits on the sofa as well, facing America with one leg curled under him and the other with his foot on the floor. He leans forward intently and reaches his hand out to run his fingertips over America’s plane-mussed hair.

America feels a lot like an oblivious kid again. He takes a sip of the water, which is cold and flat and it was thoughtful of England to remember that. “I know I should have called. Sorry for interrupting your evening with Portugal,” he says, turning his head to look at England.

England meets his eyes in such away that lets America know he has seen right through this statement. “You weren’t interrupting. Portugal is a good friend. He stops by on occasion. We have a drink and reminisce. That’s all.”

“What do you reminisce about?” America knows he should be more direct, but for some reason it’s really difficult. Maybe because he isn’t sure if he really wants to know the answer to the more direct question he should be asking.

“The old days. When we were empires. We did terrible things, yes, but sometimes it tickles the brain nicely to remember what it was like to have all that power. You’ll understand one day.”

“Is that why you’re so relaxed around him and not me? Because you resent me for having more power now?”

“So that’s what you’re jealous of?” England asks, leaning farther forward, scanning America’s pouty expression, reading him like a favorite book he’s read a hundred times before. “Hmm.” He takes the glass from America’s hand and sets it on the coffee table. England then swings his leg over so that he straddles America’s lap. Bracing his hands against the back of the sofa, he hovers over America. “As I said, Portugal is my good friend. We have a lot of history together. We have many shared or similar experiences. We are not what we were once, but even so, there is intimacy tied up in the memories, so yes, I am very comfortable and relaxed around him.”

America’s eyes stare down at his own hands, which are awkward and unsure of what to do, wanting to touch, but feeling inadequate.

England brushes his fingers across America’s jawline so that he looks back up at him. “What about it bothers you?” he asks softly as he takes America’s hands by the wrists and places them on his hips.

America swallows hard around his own painful insecurities. “I dunno. It seems like… you don’t like me as much or you think I’m still a kid. You’re sometimes still really guarded around me… like you don’t trust me. Like… like you resent me.”

England kisses him so hard that it makes America’s head spin. “As usual, my love, you are quite mistaken.” He brushes his lips against America’s neck, gripping the back of the sofa once more in order to leverage his weight.

America’s hands tighten over hips he hadn’t been fully aware he was holding. “Wh-what?”

“It is not that I’m guarded, as you say.” England buries his nose in America’s hair and nuzzles him before dipping down to murmur against America’s ear, “and I know full well that you are not a child.” He nips America’s earlobe, “and I adore you above everyone and you honestly drive me truly mad.”

Mad… mad means crazy in British, right? America’s brain struggles to remember as England continues pressing his parted lips against America’s neck.

“I am not envious of your position. I had it once, I don’t know if I’d ever want it back. The reason I may seem… tense,” and his tongue flicks over the word the same way it flicks over the shell of America’s ear, “is because I want you.” He pulls America’s right hand from his hip and presses it between his legs with a muffled groan. “You’re distractingly sexy and it’s often rather difficult to keep my hands off of you,” he says, voice lower and smokier now.

America responds to the implicit command and palms and massages the growing bulge in England’s pants. He watches England’s reaction, hypnotized by the rhythmic undulation of his lithe body and euphoric fluttering of his eyelids. But emotions feel unresolved and England’s ability to turn America completely into molten lust has derailed conversations like this before, so in trying to hang onto coherent thought, his hand slips away, falling to the outside of England’s thigh. “Why—why didn’t you just tell me any of that before?”

England hums pensively, undeterred from the apparent trajectory he intends the night to take. He busies his own hands with undoing America’s jeans and doesn’t respond until he has his fingers wrapped around America’s half-hard arousal. “I suppose I thought it might inflate your already insufferable ego,” he says coolly, caressing America's heated flesh, but taking care that America sees the devious grin on his lips.

It’s no small feat since America’s breath is now catching in his throat on each inhale and releasing in feverish, stammered gasps and the shattered syllables of England's name as the older nation teases him by alternating between a deft grip and a mere brush of temperate fingertips. His hips twitch upward to meet England’s hand because it’s so good. It feels so good because it’s England and America wants to say with words how much he loves him, but it’s too much so he just yanks England down and kisses him.

England seems pleased with this, stroking America and squeezing him just so. “You’re so lovely like this,” he murmurs breathlessly.

“Eng-England,” America gasps, “this isn’t fair.”

England presses a quick kiss against America’s open mouth, tugging on his bottom lip with his teeth. “Of course not, darling,” he purrs against America’s cheek as his hand strokes a little faster, squeezes a little harder, “I have never played fair. I certainly don’t intend to start now.”

America moans, his head falling back and baring his neck.

“It’s true that you have the power to change everything as you see fit and perhaps you are a little young for such a thing, but I’m generally not fussed about it. Would you like to know why?”

America musters up enough will to half-heartedly glare at him for being so flippant, but the irritation incinerates almost instantly in the fiery need which is reaching all the way out to his skin.

England uses his free hand to wrap around the back of America’s head, pull him forward, and press their foreheads together. His normally bright green eyes are almost black as America’s body arches into him before slumping back, sated and compliant. “Because you bend the world to your whims, America, but who bends you to theirs?”


End file.
